Page 141 of Violent Possession

“It’s not a collar,” I correct. “It’s a choice.”

He pretends not to understand. I know he does. I know because, under the sarcasm, there is a spark of recognition. Thedifference between submitting and surrendering, between being a mark of the past or the present.

Griffin puts on a show of hesitating, but he has already decided. He is the wounded animal in the alley: he bites, he scratches, but when he realizes he has no way out, he offers his neck with a dignity that I dare not name. He brings his hands to the nape of his neck, with trembling fingers, and removes the cheap St. Michael’s chain. The medallion clinks against the palm of his hand as he hesitates, a breath of time where I expect him to back away. But Griffin is not one to back down.

He places the amulet on the marble with an incongruous delicacy. Only then does he hold out his hand to me. Tacit acceptance.

I get closer. Not just out of necessity, but because it’s impossible not to want to occupy Griffin’s space: he radiates a raw heat, a gravitational field that distorts intentions. I could simply hand over the chain, but it would only be half a gesture. So, instead, I pass the gold around his neck. I feel his hot, rough skin, covered in sweat and scars. The metal touches his collarbone, and Griffin doesn’t move. He just breathes, and his neck pulses under my fingers.

The gold rests on the bone, looking surprisingly right there. It looks like it always belonged to him.

I close the clasp.

He looks down and sees the gleam against his chest.

My hands remain on his shoulders, brushing the marked flesh.

I should let go. I don’t. The impulse of dominance mixes with an unknown will: to protect. Or maybe to ruin for good.

Griffin firms his hands on the counter, as if he always expected to be touched like this.

I see the fatigue in his eyes. The fatigue, the pain, and something beyond—a bitter relief.

He made a choice. He chose me, even if it was just to see if I’m capable of reciprocating. And choosing, for Griffin, is always an act of risk.

There are no words for this. So I do what’s left.

I lean in until I feel his breath on my face: it smells of blood, alcohol, the poison of pride. I touch his lips with mine, testing. He waits.

The kiss begins light, experimental, and only then deepens. I taste defeat and victory. His hand rises to my chest to anchor himself. I let him. I push my tongue against his, nibble his already broken lip, pass the mark of saliva like a second signature.

When I pull away, Griffin’s eyes are glazed, his lips are open, his cheeks are flushed. He seems truly disarmed.

I think maybe he doesn’t know how to handle softness.

“You’re filthy,” I say. “You need a bath.”

He blinks, returns to his body, and the irony struggles to emerge. “You’re not going to give me a bath too, boss?”

“Not today. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

He freezes. Maybe he expected me to kick him out, or discard him like most would after use. But Griffin is not a remnant; he only believes that because he was taught to be.

His gaze seeks the trap. “You’re not going to sleep again? Or is it with me?”

He wants to know if he is an object or an accomplice. If there is an after, or just another now.

The right answer would be to limit, to end the vulnerability.

“...With me.”

A small ghost of a smile touches Griffin’s lips.

I step away before the scene goes south.

I go to the door; I need action, air, anything to replace the heat that has stuck to my body. Griffin’s gaze weighs on my back. I sense the question: what now?

“I have to go out,” I announce, putting my hand on the doorknob. “I have to deal with the...giftyou brought me.”